


Calamine

by LostCol



Category: Call Me By Your Name (2017) RPF
Genre: Fluff, Hurt/Comfort, Love, M/M, Poison Ivy - Freeform, Schmoop, Sickfic, Smut, armie being dramatic, timmy being a saint
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-09-04
Updated: 2020-09-04
Packaged: 2021-03-06 16:07:51
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 9,815
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/26291623
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/LostCol/pseuds/LostCol
Summary: Timmy nurses Armie through a horrible case of poison ivy.
Relationships: Timothée Chalamet/Armie Hammer
Comments: 16
Kudos: 72





	Calamine

**Author's Note:**

> I’m not a doctor, but I had a number of hella bad poison ivy reactions when I was younger, before I started avoiding anything leafy and green like the plague. So take all medical information in here with a grain of salt (as always, it’s fanfiction, guys). But, also know that all of the recommended treatments in here, as well as everything that happens and has happened to Armie involving poison ivy have been recommended to and happened to me. Yikes.  
> There’s a translation for the miniscule amount of French in the end note.  
> These are fictionalized versions of real people; 100% fiction.

“God _damn_ it, Timmy!”

Oh shit.

Timmy lets his bag fall to the floor and places his keys on the hook by the door while he toes off his shoes.

“Yes, darling?” he calls, heading toward the shouting. He knows he’s risking his ass by trying to be cute, but… Why is that a bad thing? He walks through the bedroom and stops in the doorway to the master bathroom. “What’s up?”

Armie’s standing in front of the full-length mirror, twisting every which way as if trying to see every inch of his shirtless body. Which, nothing Timmy hasn’t done before, but Armie looks a little more distressed than Timmy generally does when he’s studying his boyfriend’s delicious bod.

“I told you it was poison ivy!” Armie exclaims, startling Timmy out of his burgeoning daydream.

“Poison… oh. Oh _shit_.”

“Yeah exactly, oh shit! Look at me! I’m covered in it!”

Raking his eyes over Armie’s body (and trying to tone down the lust long enough to actually _look_ ), Timmy sees the red rash spread over Armie’s stomach, chest, back, neck, and arms. What looks like tiny, white, pus-filled bubbles are scattered throughout, and a little bit has creeped up onto his cheek. And fuck, he already has some stubble, and now he won’t be able to shave for days. Weeks? Timmy feels a flash of excitement at the imminent return of bearded Armie. (Followed by a small flash of guilt, he’s not a complete asshole. But still. _Bearded Armie_.)

But, back to the matter at hand.

“Oh shit, Armie. I’m sorry, I didn’t—I really thought it wasn’t!”

“Right, because your _extensive_ outdoors experience has really made you an expert.”

“Hey, you’re the one who wanted to roll down that hill with those kids!”

“Yeah but—”

“—and _you’re_ the one who did all that outdoorsy camping shit with your dad when you were a kid!”

“Well, yeah, but—"

“— _and_ _you’re_ the genius who asked the born and raised city kid what he thought some random leaves were!”

“It _was_ in the city! It was Central Park!”

Timmy scoffs. “I’m pretty sure toxic fauna is—”

“Fine! Okay, fine, Timmy. I get it.”

Timmy’s face softens when he sees how uncomfortable Armie looks.

“I really am sorry.”

Armie sighs, “I know. I hope none of those kids got it.”

“Me too. I mean, realistically they probably did, but. I hope not.” Timmy shrugs sympathetically. “What can I do?”

“Okay, well. Don’t laugh, okay?”

“Why would I laugh?”

“I think I should go to the doctor.”

Timmy’s face falls. “Shit, it’s that bad?”

Armie shakes his head quickly, hating the anxiety he can already see flickering across Timmy’s face. “No, it’s not. I promise. But it’s all over me, and I got it really bad a few times as a kid. Like, _really_ bad. One time when I was… around six? I got it on my face and I completely blew up. Like, my mom took a picture and I look like The Blob, I swear, you wouldn’t even know it was me. And I remember the doctor was worried about my vision, if it happened again and the rash spread any closer to my eyes.”

Timmy just stares at him, his eyebrows practically in his hairline, so Armie raises his own and shrugs. “So—”

“Fuck, Armie! You have to be more careful!”

“Look, it’s fine. Plenty of reactions get less severe as you get older. At least, that’s what they always told me, could have been bullshit I guess,” Armie shrugs again, “but I’ll be fine. I just want to get ahead of it, and I figure a doctor can give me something stronger than I can get over the counter.”

“Okay, so have you called the doctor yet? Yours does same day sick visits, right? Do you know what time the office closes?”

“Not yet. I didn’t realize how bad it was until right before you got home.”

Armie pulls on a shirt (smiling to himself the whole time at how quickly Timmy flipped from indignant to concerned. That’s Timmy though, sweet and snarky and horny in equal measure), then he calls his doctor while Timmy perches on the kitchen counter eating a granola bar and swinging his feet like a kid who’s just gotten home from school.

Armie grabs his keys as soon as he hangs up. “They can see me in 20 minutes if I can get there.”

“Oh, great!”

Armie stops and turns with his hand on the door handle, watching Timmy slide his shoes on. “You’re coming with me?”

“Of course I’m coming.”

They stare at each other for a few seconds until Armie shrugs and heads out the door, leaving Timmy to lock up and catch up to him. “Thanks, I guess, but it’s going to be boring. And it’s not like I’m sick, I’m not going to wilt on the cab ride over if that’s what you’re worried about.”

“Don’t be an idiot. You know you’d come if it were me.”

“Well yeah, but—”

“But nothing,” Timmy says, fixing Armie with a _look_.

In the cab, Timmy tries to distract Armie by telling him about his lunch with his mom a few hours earlier, which had turned into shopping for a new shirt with his mom, which had turned into his mom almost buying them one of those custom built-in closet inserts before Timmy had stopped her. But he can tell Armie is only half listening as he presses his palms against his body and rubs in slow, firm circles, trying to relieve the itching without actually scratching. After five minutes of that, Timmy bites his lip and says, “You probably don’t want to break the bubbles,” and he reaches out to stop him.

“They’re pustules, and NO— _don’t touch me, Timmy!_ ” Armie squeaks, jerking backward against the door.

“Jesus, what?” Timmy yanks has arm back in surprise. “I was just going to touch your sleeve.”

Armie clears his throat, a light flush coloring his cheeks. “No, it’s bad enough I have it. I don’t want to risk it.”

“So, what, I’m not going to touch you for _days_?”

“Well….”

“Wait, but it’s not even the rash that’s contagious though, right? Isn’t it just the, like, you have to actually touch the plant? And you took a shower last night, so.”

“Yeah, I guess, but I don’t know about the pustules. I want to—just let me ask the doctor before you touch me, okay? It’s been a long time since I’ve had it.”

Timmy sighs in defeat. “Yeah, okay. But maybe stop rubbing?”

“Ugh I _know_ , it’s just… god it’s _so fucking itchy_ , Tim.”

Timmy would laugh at the pleading, wide-eyed look on Armie’s face if he—

Oh shit. Wait. That huff of laughter wasn’t supposed to come out, and now Armie looks _very_ offended.

“Aww come on, you just look so sad and uncomfortable and like… I was just thinking this is probably how you looked at your mom when you were six and she told you to stop scratching.”

“Hah. More like taped socks to my hands so I wouldn’t ‘mar my beautiful complexion’.”

“She did not.”

“Yup. Oatmeal baths, calamine lotion, and socks were apparently mama Hammer’s answer to the worst rash anyone has ever had. Anywhere. Ever.”

“Aww, poor baby,” Timmy coos, running his finger down Armie’s thigh despite Armie tensing up against the door again. “I really don’t think I’m going to get it through your jeans. Is it on your legs, too?” Armie had been wearing pants in the bathroom, so Timmy hadn’t been able to see, but it hadn’t looked like the rash extended below his waistband.

“No, thank god. My entire upper body is bad enough.” The cab swerves to the curb then, and Armie glances out the window. “Come on, we’re here.”

True to the front desks’ promise, pretty much as soon as they sit down in the waiting room, Armie’s name is called. He jumps right up, eager to get this over with, but he hesitates when Timmy stands up beside him. On the one hand, Armie’s a grown-ass man who definitely doesn’t need his boyfriend’s moral support for a rash. On the other hand though, he knows Timmy will argue with him, even here in public, and also… yeah, okay, maybe he doesn’t hate the idea of Timmy being back there with him. Timmy eventually bumps Armie’s hip to get him moving, so he shoots Timmy a grimace they both know is just for show and leads the way into the back.

After a few cursory questions from a nurse (who determines that Armie can just remove his shirt, he doesn’t need to strip and don the ever-flattering blue paper gown, thank god), the doctor comes in. She goes over Armie’s history with poison ivy and allergies generally, and in answer to Timmy’s anxious question, she assures them that no, Timmy won’t catch it if Armie has already showered off the urushiol (the oil from the plant that causes the rash, because yes, Armie, you do have to touch the oil directly).

“Even if the pustules burst?”

“Even if the pustules burst; the fluid inside is just pus, it’s not contagious.”

She does recommend washing the clothes he wore to the park in hot water and wearing gloves when they do so, because urushiol is a stubborn bugger, and Timmy sends up a prayer of thanks that Armie always throws his clothes right into the hamper.

The doctor examines the extent of the rash, touching Armie lightly over his chest and back with gloved hands, tilting his head back and forth to see how bad his neck and face are. She sits on her stool to make some notes, and then spins back toward them.

“Okay, I have a recommendation that you’re probably not going to like this.”

Timmy, ever the worrier, pales and grabs Armie’s hand, and Armie grips it in both of his. He has a feeling he knows where the doctor is going with this, and he isn’t any happier about it than Timmy will be.

“But based on your history, I think it’s a good idea to give you a steroid shot. The rash is covering a good portion of your body, and you have a history of severe reactions. And since you were only exposed yesterday, you’re looking at up to three more weeks until the rash is totally gone. The steroid shot will help calm the reaction.”

“I thought you might say that,” Armie says, resigned. He takes a deep breath. “If you think it’ll help, let’s do it.”

He turns to Timmy, who’s squeezing his hand and looking at him with huge eyes. Under his breath, he says, “Shit, Armz, I feel like a dick now.”

“I’ll just go get the shot ready, I’ll be back in a few minutes.”

“Okay,” Armie says, flicking his gaze back to the doctor for a moment.

As soon as the door closes behind her, Timmy groans, “Fuck, a shot? A steroid shot to, what’d she say? Calm the reaction? Why did you let me be such an asshole before?”

“Stop, I’m fine. They did this once when I was a kid, it’s not a big deal. And she’s right, the rash can last for weeks, and it’s on half my body, and it’s fucking miserable, so whatever they can do to make it suck a little less, I’m going to do.”

The doctor bustles back in then, syringe in a little dish in her hand, and quickly goes over exactly what she’s giving Armie, reiterating that it won’t make the rash go away, but will hopefully help it calm down and dry up more quickly. She picks up an alcohol swab and looks between the two of them.

“It goes in your buttocks, so I don’t know if you want Timmy to—”

“He can stay,” Armie cuts in, as he hops off the table and unbuckles his belt, unbuttons his fly, and pushes his jeans down over the swell of his ass. He leans against the side of the exam table and rests his forearms on it, and when the doctor starts cleaning his skin with the alcohol swab, he sucks in a breath and flicks his eyes up to Timmy, who’s watching him intently. He turns his palm up in silent invitation.

A small smile tugs at Timmy’s lips, and he moves to Armie’s side, taking his sweaty hand in both of his own smaller ones and giving it a reassuring squeeze. Whatever Armie’s size and general masculinity say to the world, the man absolutely hates needles, and he’s not ashamed to need his boyfriend to hold his hand through the pain and indignity of an ass shot, damnit.

Armie gasps and sucks in a breath when the needle goes in, and holds it for the duration. He lets out a rush of air when the doctor pulls the needle back out, and then he blushes up to his ears when he looks down to see his giant hand squeezing the everloving shit out of Timmy’s much more breakable ones. Timmy laughs and shakes his hands out when Armie releases them with a sheepish grin, and he asks “You okay?” softly enough that the doctor can pretend not to hear. Still blushing, Armie just nods and pulls his pants back up.

Okay, so maybe he is a little embarrassed to need his boyfriend when he’s getting a needle in his ass. But who wouldn’t?

“I suggest you pick up some calamine lotion or something similar on your way home, and I’d recommend buying some plain, unscented Dove soap.”

Timmy pipes up, “Dove specifically?”

The doctor nods. “It’s rich and moisturizing, which is important because the rash is very dry, and since it’s unscented, it won’t irritate the skin further. It’s good for any kind of rash, really.”

“Okay, thanks. We’ll do that.”

Armie raises an eyebrow at Timmy apparently deciding to take over his appointment, but he stays silent. Because really, Timmy wanting to take care of him is definitely not unappreciated.

“Anything else we can do for the discomfort?”

“You can try oatmeal baths. A lot of people don’t bother because they’re a little messy, and weird, I suppose, but some people swear by them. And an over-the-counter anti-inflammatory will help with the inflammation. Generally, keeping the skin cool and moisturized will help.”

Knowing that once Timmy’s on a roll, he may never stop asking questions, and seeing Timmy open his mouth again to do just that, Armie jumps in with a “Thanks, doc, we’ll try… some of that.” He’s starting to get really uncomfortable, and he just wants to go home, strip naked, and rub himself all over the carpet for a little relief.

“Any time. Come back if it’s still bothering you in three weeks, but I don’t see any reason why it won’t have cleared up by then.”

“Great, thank you so much!” Timmy chirps.

As soon as the doctor steps out, Armie turns to Timmy and chuckles. “As much as I love you wanting to help, I can ask my own questions you know.”

“You _can_ , but you weren’t. And I want to cover all our bases,” Timmy says with a shrug and an eyebrow raise that’s just daring Armie to argue. But Armie’s no fool (well, at least not when it comes to provoking a well-meaning Timmy), so he just smiles and wraps an arm around Timmy’s shoulders, and tows him out of the office.

An hour later, they _finally_ arrive back at their apartment, Armie comically staggering under the weight of all the calamine lotion, Dove soap, oatmeal bath, ibuprofen, and a tabletop fan Timmy insisted they buy. The fan, because, “this will feel good when the rash feels hot, right? Right.” And Armie had just carried the basket around the store, rolling his eyes and trying not to scratch while Timmy loaded them up with more and more supplies.

They dump the – five – bags on the counter before Timmy turns to Armie with that no nonsense look on his face that usually does things to Armie’s—

Yup. There it is.

“Yes, darling?” he asks, trying his best to leer at Timmy even though he’s tired, itchy, and sore, and all of those, sadly, are taking precedence over any flickers of horniness that have sparked to life.

Completely ignoring the pained leer, Timmy says (in his best no-nonsense voice, which is still working for Armie, even though he knows nothing will come of it), “You should take a bath while I make dinner. We were going to try the new panini press tonight, right?”

“I was going to help with that though,” Armie argues, even though he knows it’s futile. Even though he knows Timmy has already made his mind up about how their evening is going to go, and Timmy has always been the better cook, anyway.

“Nope, I’ve got this. Go take an oatmeal bath, okay? Don’t be a baby about it, it’ll help.”

“The stuff was literally in the baby aisle!”

“And yet my big, strong, manly lover will be using it to soothe his tight, itchy skin. Get over it,” Timmy says, pushing up onto his toes to drop a kiss on Armie’s non-rashy cheek. Armie just grumbles pointlessly, grabs a carton off the counter, and trudges off toward the bathroom.

Timmy pulls out the panini press and all the ingredients he’s going to need, arranging everything on the counter and pulling down some plates so they’ll be quick to whip up once he starts. He’s trying to kill some time before he goes to check on Armie, in the hopes that he’ll actually be _in_ the bath by the time he gets in there, and as he fiddles with the ingredients, Timmy chuckles to himself at how adorably pouty Armie gets sometimes when he’s in a mood.

Timmy had been listening to the tub fill while he’d futzed around the kitchen, and after a few minutes of silence, he figures it’s safe to go in. He hesitantly knocks on the half open bathroom door and waits for Armie’s “yeah?” before he steps in.

“Hey, how’s it feel?”

Armie looks a little sad sitting in the tub by himself, and Timmy realizes—

“I’ve never been in here alone before, you know.”

“I was just thinking that! Baths are more of a joint activity for us, huh? You uhhh,” he hesitates, eyeing the murky water, “want… company?”

Armie lets out a laugh, knowing exactly how much Timmy _doesn’t_ want to sit in a giant tub of oatmeal, but he’s feeling kind of miserable, so he cheers himself up a little by turning his puppy dog eyes on Timmy and saying, “I’d love some, thanks, Timmy Tim!”

Armie savors the hilarious look of panic that flashes across Timmy’s face before he bursts out laughing and says, “I’m just kidding, god, your face.” Tears may or may not be leaking from his eyes, and he doesn’t even feel like an asshole because,

“Smart ass,” Timmy huffs, but he can’t fully suppress the smile that’s trying to break across his face. “You know I would have.”

Because he knows Timmy can take it.

“I know you would have because you love me more than life itself, but I also know you would have been tense and grossed out, and I love you too much to do that to you.”

Timmy sighs dramatically and whines, “I don’t even know what I’m supposed to say to that.” He jabs a finger at Armie. “You do NOT love me more than I love you.” He huffs “jerk” under his breath and tries to hide his grin by looking down and away from his loveable asshole, but,

“Oh shit.”

“What?”

“We should really pick up some grout cleaner.”

“Timmy!” Armie laughs. “Is that what you’re worried about right now? Not your poor, sickly boyfriend?”

He knows Armie’s teasing, but he can’t deny that he hates seeing Armie hurting, in any way, for any reason, so he kneels next to the tub and leans on the edge. “I’m sorry you’re hurting, mon trésor,” he says quietly, running the back of his hand over Armie’s cheek. Armie’s smirk fades and his eyes go soft, and he tilts his head into Timmy’s touch, closing his eyes and letting himself sink into the comfort.

Timmy brushes away the hair that’s fallen across Armie’s forehead and places a soft kiss there, lingering for a moment before he leans over to grab a washcloth out of the cabinet. He searches below the sink, pushing spare toothbrushes and backup shampoo bottles out of the way until he finds the aloe-infused body wash they bought last month after he got sunburned wandering around the city one hot, lazy Sunday. Armie, of course, had come home with a tan, the bastard.

He squeezes some out onto the washcloth, figuring Armie can use the Dove soap next time, because right now Timmy wants to make sure his skin is cooled down. (Plus, no surprise, Armie hadn’t bothered to bring the soap into the bathroom with him.) He swishes it around in the water for a second to soften up the gel, and then he gently washes Armie all over, spending extra time swirling it softly over his back while he sits forward, resting his chin on his knees.

Later, while Armie’s drying off, Timmy goes into the bedroom to pull out his softest hang around clothes. “Are you itchy?” he asks when Armie emerges from the bathroom, naked and toweling off his hair. Timmy’s a little taken aback at how widespread the poison ivy is, now that he’s seeing it completely uncovered and on display, and he feels another pang of guilt. “Do you want me to put the calamine lotion on you before you get dressed?”

“No, it feels okay right now. That aloe soap felt really nice, thanks for that.”

Timmy smiles that half-smile Armie loves and hands him his clothes.

When he’s dressed, Timmy parks Armie on the couch and quickly makes the paninis, loving every second that he’s using the new panini press his mom – Nicole, that is – gave Armie for his birthday. Knowing that more than likely, Timmy would end up using it to cook for Armie.

They demolish the sandwiches—

“Wow, these are incredible, Tim.”

—during the first ten minutes of a Brooklyn Nine-Nine rerun, and by the time the episode ends, Armie’s nodding off against Timmy’s shoulder. The end credits startle him awake, and he rubs his eyes and looks around.

“What time is it?”

“Uhhh…” Timmy glances at his phone. “9:26.”

“Jesus. I’m exhausted. I think I’m just going to go to bed.”

“Good idea, I’ll join you.”

“No, you don’t have to—”

“Nah, it’s been a long day, I just want to chill. I still have to clean up and take a shower first anyway.”

While he cleans up the mess in the kitchen, Timmy watches Armie climb into bed and settle in through the bedroom doorway, debating with himself for a minute before he fills up a glass of water and goes in to set it on Armie’s nightstand. Armie smiles up at him with only a hint of a smirk on his face. They both know Armie can damn well get his own water, but Timmy loves leaning into the nurse thing when Armie’s sick, and Armie, as much as he might grumble about it when he’s in a _mood_ , loves being on the receiving end. Timmy answers his smirk with an eye-crinkling smile and a one-shouldered shrug, and then he heads into the bathroom to shower, stripping all the way.

By the time he comes out, clean and pink and damp, with his wet hair slicked back, Armie is asleep. He’s sprawled on his back across three-quarters of the bed and breathing deeply, with his head turned toward Timmy’s pillow. Timmy pulls on boxers and a t-shirt and crawls under the covers, debating how to position himself. He doesn’t think he should curl up against Armie, figuring that any contact might just irritate his skin further, so he uses his feet to carefully push Armie’s right leg back onto his side of the bed, and then he rolls onto his side facing Armie. He places a small kiss on Armie’s chin and then tilts his forehead against it, sinking into his pillow as he focuses on the feeling of Armie’s steady breaths ghosting across the top of his head.

Timmy wakes up hours later to a greyish, pre-dawn darkness, and he knows something is off the second he awakes. It takes a few minutes for his sluggish brain to catch up to the outside world, but when it does, he realizes that Armie is moving around beside him a bit too much to just be shifting in his sleep. Squinting in the slightly-less-than-pitch-black light, Timmy can tell that he’s still on his back with his eyes closed, but he’s rubbing his back and arms against the sheets while he lets out tiny, quiet moans, miserable little sounds that are barely more than soft rumbles in his chest.

“Armie?” Timmy whispers, reaching out to rest his hand gently on Armie’s shoulder. He isn’t sure if Armie is properly asleep or not, and he doesn’t want to startle him. “Armz?” he says again quietly when there’s no response, shaking his shoulder a little.

Armie groans and blinks up at Timmy, and as soon as he’s fully awake, his face crumples.

“Armie, shit! Is it the rash?”

Armie sucks in a breath, and his voice is shaky when he says, “I keep waking up, I—it’s so uncomfortable. I can’t stay asleep.” He squeezes his eyes shut to stop the tears from escaping, but one leaks out anyway and Timmy’s stomach drops.

“Oh, Armz. Okay, let me help. I’ll—give me a minute, I’ll be right back.”

Timmy knows he needs to stop the itching, but he also needs to cool Armie’s skin down. Armie’s shoulder had felt warm when he’d touched it, and Timmy figures he’s probably flushed from sleep, from the effort of _trying_ to sleep, and from the irritation of the fabric of his clothes dragging across his overly sensitive skin while he writhed between the sheets. So cooling Armie down is priority one, and Timmy has an idea.

Timmy rushes to the kitchen to unbox the tabletop fan they didn’t bother to unpack last night, and then he grabs their large popcorn bowl from the cupboard over the microwave. He deposits the fan on the bureau in the bedroom on his way into the bathroom, where he grabs a stack of washcloths and a couple of hand towels from the cabinet and drops them in the bowl. He sticks it under the tap (and he’s happy that it actually fits – it’s a big ass popcorn bowl) and lets an inch or so of lukewarm water soak into everything.

Back in the bedroom, Armie is sitting up in bed, concentrating on breathing evenly while he tries to talk himself out of the pain. If he tells himself that it doesn’t itch, that it’s just an _interesting_ sensation, not necessarily an _unpleasant_ one, that should work right? Mind over matter and all that. He’s finding that while that may work for an itchy toe when you’re comfortable in bed and don’t want to move (and it totally does, he’s tried it and it’s amazing what the power of the mind can do when you’re determined and just too damn lazy to scratch), but it’s apparently no match for the power of poison plant rashes.

He looks up hopefully when Timmy comes back into the room carrying their popcorn bowl, willing to try anything Timmy has up his sleeve that might give him some relief from the constant, ceaseless discomfort.

“All right. Get naked,” Timmy says, setting the bowl down on Armie’s nightstand.

“Uhhh…”

“Just trust me, okay?” Timmy says, rolling his eyes.

He helps Armie with his shirt and then leaves him to kick off his sweats while he pops back into the bathroom to grab one of their large bath sheets. He lays it on the bed in Armie’s spot and then lays one of the damp hand towels from the popcorn bowl in the center of it while Armie watches, confusion wrinkling his brow.

“Okay, lay down on your back with the hand towel under the rash.”

Understanding flickers in Armie’s eyes, and he flashes Timmy a grateful smile while he gets himself situated. Once he’s comfortable, Timmy lays the other hand towel over Armie’s chest and stomach, and then he uses the washcloths to cover the rash where it trails down Armie’s arms and up his neck, pressing them into Armie’s skin gently as he places them. When he’s out of washcloths, he stands back to check his work, and then he glances over at the fan sitting on the bureau with his mouth twisted to the side in thought.

“Oh!”

He hurries back to the bathroom to grab another bath sheet and some ibuprofen. He wishes he’d thought of the ibuprofen earlier, but, hindsight, so he helps Armie tip his head up enough to swallow the pills without dislodging the washcloths, and then he lays the bath sheet over Armie, nodding to himself in satisfaction. He plugs the fan in and turns it to its lowest setting, pointing it toward Armie’s side of the bed.

“How’s that?”

“Um, maybe tip it down a little more.”

Timmy fiddles for a second and then, “How’s—”

“Oh, that’s perfect. Oh god, yes.”

Timmy smiles and crosses to the window to close the curtains against the now brighter pre-dawn light, before crawling back into bed and snuggling under the covers. Armie turns his head toward Timmy, looking happier than he’s looked since yesterday morning, and breaths, “Thank you so much. You’re so fucking smart.”

Timmy blushes and looks away, embarrassed by the praise at the same time that he loves it, and he bumps his forehead against Armie’s shoulder. “Let’s try to get some more sleep, okay? I’m sorry you’re so exhausted. You could have woken me up earlier, you know.”

“I know. I was trying not to wake you up at all though.”

They smile at each other, knowing there’s no use in arguing their points, because they both do this. They both try not to be a bother when they’re sick (intermittent dramatics during various illnesses over the years aside), but they both also wish the other one would be more upfront about what they need when they’re sick. They both _want_ to help, comfort, cry with, cook for, whatever the sick one needs, while the sick one wants to be as little of an inconvenience as possible. There’s no resolving it.

Armie – and therefore Timmy – successfully sleeps for several more hours, and it’s late morning when Timmy wakes to find Armie still passed out beside him. He lost the washcloths off one arm when he apparently moved in his sleep so Timmy could nestle the top of his head into Armie’s armpit and press his face into his ribs, which is a position they have never once gone to sleep in but frequently wake up in. Much to Timmy’s delight though, everything else is as Timmy arranged it hours earlier.

Timmy notices that Armie is shivering slightly now, so he rolls out of bed to turn off the fan and peel the cool cloths off Armie’s skin. Armie sleeps through the removal of everything from his front, so Timmy gathers his strength and rolls Armie onto his side, and while Armie groans and sighs and pulls Timmy’s pillow to his chest, he doesn’t wake up. Timmy gets rid of the rest of the cloths and towels, and then he pulls the duvet up over Armie and leans down to kiss him softly on the shell of his ear. Timmy gathers everything up and dumps it all in the hamper, and then he tiptoes into the bathroom, quietly closing the door behind him. 

He has a pot of coffee keeping warm and is in the middle of making pancakes when Armie finally emerges from the bedroom, wearing an old pair of sweats and a soft black ribbed tank top that never fails to make Timmy’s mouth go dry, and sporting horrific bedhead. He’s yawning hugely and his eyes are squinty, as if he isn’t quite fully awake, but he perks up when he smells the fresh coffee.

“Thanks for this morning,” he says, his voice deep and rumbly from sleep, pulling Timmy into a hug and nuzzling his face into Timmy’s wild curls.

“Of course. How do you feel now?”

“Shitty, honestly, but like slightly less pungent shit than I would have if you hadn’t worked your magic.”

Timmy huffs a laugh. “I can work more magic than damp washcloths…” He trails off and catches Armie’s eye, and they both burst out laughing.

“I don’t know that you could, actually.”

Timmy giggles, “Yeah, you’re probably right. You want pancakes?”

“Always.”

Timmy gently hip checks Armie when he tries to help out, directing him to a barstool. Armie rolls his eyes and clucks his tongue, but he’s still pretty exhausted and really does feel like warmed over shit, so he plops down on the stool without argument.

They’re halfway through their pancake stacks – Timmy’s drenched in syrup and butter and Armie’s dusted with powdered sugar, a choice that always makes Timmy chuckle indulgently, which Armie always patently ignores – when Armie asks, “Where’d you learn that, by the way?”

Timmy looks down at his pancakes, confused, because he’s made them pancakes for breakfast dozens of times. And for dinner a few times. And for a post-sex midnight snack once or twice.

“The damp washcloth thing. The fan.”

“Oh, I dunno,” Timmy says around a mouthful of pancake. “The fan just made sense, I mean, haven’t you ever—” He cuts himself off, squinting at Armie, and then shakes his head, laughing. “Of course you haven’t. I was going to say, ‘haven’t you ever sprawled under a fan when you’ve gotten a sunburn?’ I don’t know how it slipped my mind that you’re a bronzed god ten months out of the year.”

“ _Your_ bronzed god,” Armie growls.

Timmy smiles coquettishly and takes a sip of coffee, peering up at Armie through his eyelashes.

“And I’m your…”

“And you’re my… my luminescent—no! My pearlescent. Pearlescent… uhhh… … oh! I know. You’re my pearlescent fuckboy,” Armie declares with a wink. 

“What the fuck?!” Timmy exclaims, laughing.

“Tell me I’m wrong.”

Timmy just shakes his head and finishes up his coffee, still chuckling.

“All right, Shakespeare. Why don’t you take a cool shower and I’ll clean up here and change the sheets. And then we can just hang out?”

“Sounds like a plan. Thanks, P.F.,” Armie says, winking and smacking a kiss on Timmy’s cheek on his way to the sink. “That sounds perfect.”

“P.F.?”

Armie just laughs and heads toward the bathroom, and he almost has the door closed when Timmy laughs and yells, “Pearlescent fuckboy is not going to be a thing!”

Armie does everything right that day, washing with the Dove soap under a cool stream of water, letting Timmy slather calamine lotion all over his rash, putting on soft, loose clothing, and reupping the ibuprofen every four hours. And he DOES. NOT. SCRATCH.

But still, he becomes grumpier and grumpier as the day progresses. He’s tired from lack of sleep, he’s still worried that those kids in the park rolled through the poison ivy, too, and he’s annoyed that he’s still so uncomfortable despite everything he and Timmy are doing. Because despite their best efforts, his skin is itchy, hot, and tight, and it looks gruesome, splotchy and puffy and covered in pustules. And no matter how little stock he generally tries to put in superficial shit, his appearance is doing absolutely nothing for his state of mind.

He snaps at Timmy when he clatters a plate unloading the dishwasher in mid-afternoon, and then he doesn’t stop snapping for the rest of the day. He knows it isn’t fair, and he feels guilty literally _as_ he’s doing it, but his nerves are so on edge he can’t stop himself. And Timmy takes it so annoyingly well that Armie just feels increasingly shitty as the afternoon drags on, and it just… It just isn’t a great day.

For his part, Timmy is mellow, quiet, comforting, understanding as Armie’s mood worsens. He’s never had poison ivy, and he had chicken pox when he was too young to remember, but he does remember the second-degree sunburn he got all over back, chest, arms, and face the summer he was twelve. And if Armie feels anything like how he felt then – in pain, mad at himself, sort of helpless, uncertain how long he’ll feel like shit, dreading not being able to sleep properly for days – well, he’ll do anything he can to help Armie feel better. Even if it’s just dealing with Armie’s foul mood.

So, they spend a mostly quiet afternoon on the couch. Timmy lets Armie control the remote, and he supplies food, drinks, painkillers, and lotion as needed. He lets Armie grumble and mumble and give him one-word answers with his eyebrows scrunched low over his eyes, and he bites his tongue when he’s tempted to point out how adorable Armie’s grouchy pout is.

Needless to say, Armie is surprised later that night when he steps out of his second cool shower of the day to find Timmy all ready for him in the bedroom, a bath sheet spread over the bed, the calamine lotion on the nightstand, and a smile on his face.

“Lay down on your stomach, okay?”

Armie raises an eyebrow in question but complies immediately. He’s tired and grumpy, and he doesn’t want to admit that he’s in serious need of some babying right now. But… he’s in serious need of some babying right now.

Timmy clicks open the cap and squeezes some lotion into his palm, explaining, “I had an idea, and I want to know what you think, because I don’t want to make you any more uncomfortable than you already are. I was thinking I’ll put the lotion on your back, then you’ll flip over so I can do your front, then I’ll help you put a shirt on so the lotion doesn’t get rubbed off, and then I’ll suck you off.”

“Timmy,” Armie says gruffly, getting hung up on the sudden lump in his throat. Jesus, what the hell is going on with his emotions today? “You want to suck me off now? After I’ve been an asshole all day? With how this fucking rash looks?” He winces inwardly at how insecure he sounds.

Timmy sighs. “Armz. You know I’d love you permanently and grossly disfigured. You really think a little pus-filled rash is going to put me off?”

“Ahhh, true love, folks,” Armie jokes in what was meant to be a wry tone, but comes out more strangled and watery. As emotionally open as he’s tried to be since meeting Timmy (and loving how the kid just wears every. single. emotion. on his sleeve, and yes, Armie is a work in progress, but he _is_ working on it), he’s embarrassed by his sentimentalism today, his eyes filling up and his heart thumping at Timmy’s sweet (if disgusting) words, and he’s grateful when Timmy says, “Thank god your dick was spared though, huh? Imagine,” masterfully pulling them out of the sappy moment.

Armie shivers violently. “I’d rather not, actually,” he says with a low chuckle.

Timmy finishes Armie’s back, his fingers whispering over the skin, not attempting any kind of massage because he knows how sensitive Armie’s skin is right now. He helps him sit up and flip onto his back, and Armie watches him with a slightly dopey, over-tired, thank-god-my-boyfriend’s-willing-to-put-up-with-my-grumpy-ass smile on his lips while Timmy takes care of his stomach, chest, arms, neck, and cheek – damn, it really is a huge rash – and then he lets Timmy sit him up and pull one of his oldest, softest t-shirts over his head, being careful not to smudge the lotion.

“Lay down on your back,” Timmy instructs, going to throw the bath sheet into the hamper and wash the calamine residue off his hands. When he gets back, he grabs the lube out of the nightstand, kneels between Armie’s spread legs, and squeezes some out into his hand. He drops the tube onto the bed and then rubs his hands together to warm them up, and then he strokes Armie’s soft cock a few times, smiling when it swells slightly and gives a halfhearted lurch. But when he glances up at Armie’s face, he sees that his eyes are squeezed shut, and he doesn’t open them until Timmy says, “Armie?”, worried that something is wrong.

“That feels—fuck, that feels good, Tim, but I’m not sure it’s going to work tonight. I’m just… my skin—”

“Hey, it’s okay if it doesn’t. But it feels good though, right? So can I at least try?”

Armie’s eyes crinkle as he grins at Timmy, and he nods. He’s determined to be a good sport and enjoy this (and it _does_ feel good, how could it not?), so he puts on what Timmy calls his porn star voice and says, “Everything you do feels good, baby,” barely getting it all out before his lets out an embarrassingly squeaky giggle and blushes. Timmy breaks into his soundless, open-mouthed laugh while he resumes stroking, and then he lowers his head to place a kiss on the head of Armie’s cock, which is now making a valiant effort to stand at attention.

Timmy breaks out some of his best moves, licking, kissing, sucking, swallowing, stroking, and liiiiightly scraping his nails up the underside of the massive cock in that way that makes Armie shiver and swear. He licks his balls, teases his perineum, taps his hole, and kisses and strokes the soft insides of his thighs, and Armie writhes beneath him.

But despite his ministrations, and much to both of their disappointment, Timmy pulls off eventually when it becomes clear that Armie won’t be fully hard any time soon, and Timmy is well and truly out of breath. He’s a mess when he pulls off, his lips swollen and his chin and neck covered in spit, and there’s pink dotting the tips of some of his curls where they brushed against the drying calamine lotion on Armie’s stomach. His eyes are teary and a little unfocused, and Armie doesn’t know if it’s from lust and exertion, or from Armie accidentally choking him a few times when he’d been seized by a sudden itch and squirmed or wriggled or bucked into Timmy’s face without warning.

“Fuck, Timmy, come here,” Armie says breathlessly, reaching for his dazed boyfriend and pulling him close when Timmy collapses beside him. He maneuvers one of Timmy’s legs over his own and pulls his limp arm over his waist. “How are your teeth? I’m sorry I bucked so hard that one time.”

Timmy runs his tongue along his teeth before turning a crooked smile on Armie. “Fine, nothing loose.”

He giggles softly but then sighs, the corners of his mouth turning down while he searches Armie’s flushed face. “I’m sorry that didn’t work. I guess it wasn’t exactly relaxing, but I hope it felt nice, at least.” Timmy runs his hand under his jaw, and Armie winces remembering when he’d jerked and plowed his thigh into Timmy’s chin. He really hopes it won’t be bruised in the morning.

“It felt so good, Timmy. I’m just happy you were even willing to try after I was a jerk all day.”

Timmy wipes his mouth off and kisses Armie’s cheek. “Well, you’re _my_ jerk, and I know you don’t feel well. And it’s not like you don’t put up with my jerkiness when I’m sick. Remember when I had that awful sinus infection and I could barely tilt my head without collapsing, and I got so frustrated I knocked the toast you’d made me off the counter and yelled at you? And you just cleaned it up, and tucked my sorry ass in on the couch, and got me a damp washcloth for my eyes.”

Armie chuckles at the memory. “Oh yeah, that was a fun three days.”

Timmy laughs, chagrined, and then rolls over Armie – “Oof, Timmy!” – and lands on his feet on the far side of the bed. “I’ll clean us up and then let’s go to sleep, okay? Do you need more painkillers? Water? Anything?”

After cleaning up – there’d been a sort of ridiculous amount of spit and drool involved in the failed blowjob – turning on the fan, and crawling into bed, Timmy says softly, “That’s where I got the idea, you know.”

“Hmm?” Armie asks sleepily, not opening his eyes. Failed or not, Timmy is pleased to see his efforts have relaxed his gentle giant. That was the ultimate goal, after all.

“For the washcloths this morning. You did that for me when I had that sinus infection, and remember when I had that fever and you held a cool washcloth on the back of my neck, and I felt so much better? That’s where I got the idea. I get a lot of my good ideas from you.”

Timmy watches Armie’s closed eyes crinkle as he smiles, and he whispers, “You’re being so sappy,” as he pulls Timmy in closer. He turns his head to press a kiss to Timmy’s temple and whispers, “Thank you, Sweet Tea.”

Timmy smiles and leans into Armie’s warmth, listening to his breathing change as he falls asleep. Armie has this thing where he calls Timmy ‘Sweet Tea’ in this open, unguarded way only in their quietest, most private moments, usually in a whisper with his breath tickling Timmy’s ear. He’ll call him ‘Sweet Tea’ in a smirky, teasing way in less quiet moments when he’s feeling soft but isn’t willing to share it with the world, or with the bright light of day, and he can play it off as a joke of sorts. But Timmy knows what it means regardless of tone, and it makes his belly swoop every time.

He murmurs, “De rien, mon trésor. Je t'aime,” and presses a kiss into Armie’s neck before rolling over, pushing his butt into Armie’s hip, and drifting off.

In the morning, after a thankfully uneventful night’s sleep, Timmy has a stroke of genius while applying Armie’s now-routine post-shower slathering of calamine lotion.

Or so he thinks.

With Armie conveniently naked, standing spread eagle next to the bed and half hard thanks to having his boyfriend’s gentle hands all over his body (he’s only human, right?), Timmy slides his calamine-slicked hand down Armie’s stomach and wraps it around his cock. Armie grunts and his eyes fly open, and the comically shocked look on his face draws a belly laugh from Timmy.

“Mind if I try this?” Timmy asks, wetting his bottom lip and letting his mouth fall open while he peers up at Armie and gives his heavy cock a gentle squeeze. Armie shakes his head and licks his lips, and Timmy gets right to work, determined to give Armie his first orgasm in more than 48 hours, because holy hell, the poor guy. Covered in poison ivy _and_ he hasn’t come for two days?!

Timmy pulls out all the stops like he did last night, trying to give Armie the handjob to end all handjobs. To their immense relief, Armie’s cock is rock hard in no time at all, and Timmy strokes, twists, squeezes, tickles, scrapes (gently), and flicks his wrist like his life depends on it. He strokes Armie’s thighs, plays with his balls, and rubs his perineum, occasionally trailing his fingers back to circle and press against his hole.

A few minutes in, Armie is sweaty and barely able to hold himself upright, and he gasps out, “Jesus, Tim, you’re going to need a fucking wrist brace after this,” and Timmy smirks with satisfaction. 

_But._

Devastatingly.

Crushingly.

Timmy’s only been pouring his heart and soul into what should have been the handjob of the century for another couple of minutes when Armie gasps loudly and doubles over, squeezing Timmy’s shoulder so hard it hurts.

“STOP, STOP, TIMMY, FUCK!” Armie yells breathlessly, yanking his hips backward.

Armie and Timmy listen in horror as Armie’s cock separates from Timmy’s hand with a sickeningly loud _unsticking_ sound, like Velcro being pulled apart.

Timmy, who had felt himself working harder as the lotion became tackier, looks from his pink palms to Armie’s (thankfully still attached to his body but quite swollen) cock with a frozen expression, before looking up to meet Armie’s equally horrified gaze.

“You glued your hand to my cock,” Armie says with tears in his eyes, almost like he can’t believe what he’s saying.

“I—”

“YOU COULD HAVE RIPPED IT OFF!”

“Come on—”

“YOU ALMOST SKINNED IT!”

“ _All right_ —"

“SERIOUSLY, WHAT IF YOU’D RIPPED THE SKIN OFF??”

“ARMIE!” Timmy shouts, slapping his slightly cleaner left hand over Armie’s mouth. “Fuck, Armie, I didn’t realize it would dry that fast, it—it felt so creamy coming out of the tube!”

Armie huffs against Timmy’s hand and pulls it away.

“FUCK, that hurt.”

“I’m—”

“And now it’s going to be all dried into my pubes, oh god,” Armie laments, pulling a face so heartbreakingly sad that Timmy can’t stop his shoulders from shaking. Armie’s eyes snap to Timmy’s and flash with anger.

_“How is this funny?”_

But his voice comes out unexpectedly high, and between that and the indignant look on his face, Timmy loses the battle to keep the giggles inside.

Armie stands as still as a statue, observing the scene between them.

His upper body, cock, and balls are covered in patchy, crusty pink lotion, which is caked in his pubes and flaking onto the floor. Timmy is two feet in front of him with his hands similarly crusted over, and shaking with laughter that he’s desperately trying to hold in, his face contorting absurdly as he tries to maintain a neutral expression.

Armie blinks a couple of times and grumbles, “You wouldn’t be laughing if you _had_ ripped my skin off and I couldn’t fuck you for months.”

But he smirks after a beat, and his lips twitch, and finally, he breaks out laughing too, doubling over before he turns a quarter circle and sits heavily on the edge of the bed, shaking with the ridiculousness of it all. 

“You asshole.”

“I didn’t know!”

“Goddammit, that would have been the greatest fucking handjob of all time, Tim.”

Timmy blushes and winks and gives a cheeky little half bow.

“If you hadn’t almost removed my most treasured appendage, that is.”

“I thought _I_ was your most treasured appendage,” Timmy says coyly, sitting down next to Armie and bumping against his shoulder.

Armie snorts and looks at him sideways. “Not the time, kid.”

Timmy just flashes him a huge, goofy smile, scrunching up his face, and just like he’s hoping for, he receives an answering smile and softening eyes from Armie.

“Seriously though, are you okay? Do you want me to… check it out?” Timmy asks, glancing down at Armie’s now incredibly soft cock. Turns out screeching about cocks getting ripped off will really suck the sexual energy out of a room. Who knew.

Armie palms his cock and runs his thumb over it lightly. “No, it’s fine.”

“So…”

Armie looks at him expectantly, still cradling his cock.

Timmy licks his lips and forces himself not to get distracted. “Shower? I’ll wash the uh, the lotion out of your pubes.”

“Gently,” Armie says, shooting Timmy a look.

Timmy laughs, “Gently,” and jumps up, grabbing Armie’s hand and tugging him up.

Timmy turns on the water, setting it to a lukewarm-bordering-on-cool temperature that will be comfortable on Armie’s inflamed skin, but not set Timmy’s teeth chattering. He lathers the unscented Dove soap in his hands and then swirls them soothingly over Armie’s skin, carefully washing the lotion off so he can start over with a fresh layer after the shower. While Armie shampoos, Timmy kneels down and starts working on his pink-tinted pubes, carefully washing the very thickly matted curls (oops), and watching the streams of water running down Armie’s legs turn a faint pink as the calamine washes away.

Timmy is doing a final inspection of Armie’s perineum to check for any remaining traces of pink when Armie moans, so softly Timmy doesn’t think he even realizes he’s done it, and Timmy’s struck by another stroke of – well no, he’s not going to jinx himself by calling it a stroke of genius since his last one turned out to be more of a stroke of idiocy – but he’s struck by a good fucking idea, in his opinion, thank you very much.

He fiddles with the temperature controls to make sure the water is still comfortably cool, and then he grips Armie’s biceps to position him directly under the spray. Armie watches him without comment, trusting whatever Timmy wants to try. (Which is pretty shocking, frankly, considering they’re still recovering from what will become known as the Great Calamine Calamity, and Armie is understandably still a little jumpy.)

Timmy hesitates for a moment eyeing the river of water coursing off Armie’s penis, realizing how difficult this is going to be, but he knows the only way that Armie will be itch-free long enough for this to work is if he stands directly under the showerhead, and Timmy is determined to get his poor boyfriend off, dammit. With 48 hours and two botched attempts under their belts, Timmy is becoming offended by how much trouble he’s having bringing Armie to orgasm.

Enough is enough.

So, he gathers his courage, kneels back down, and goes at it full force. No easing in, no teasing; he sucks Armie right down to the root and immediately starts fondling his balls, stroking his thighs, and rubbing his perineum with just the right amount of pressure. Armie groans and lets his head fall back, all logical reason abandoning him at the suddenness of Timmy’s assault. Abandoning him, that is, until he inhales a lungful of water and starts sputtering and choking. His eyes pop open as he gasps and flails his hands out to find Timmy’s shoulders, trying to steady himself before he tips over.

Timmy pulls off for a second when he hears the commotion, and though he can barely keep his eyes open thanks to the torrent of water raining down on him, asks, “You okay up there?”, raising his voice to be heard over the rushing water. He grips one of Armie’s hands where it’s clutching his shoulder and gives it a squeeze.

“Keep going,” Armie sputters, his chest heaving, and he squeezes Timmy’s shoulder and moves him back toward his cock, because damnit, it’s been two days, and his boyfriend is putting a heroic amount of effort into pleasing him, and he’s done nothing but try to help Armie feel better all weekend. He’s at least as determined as Timmy to see this thing to completion, because for fuck’s sake, there is _no way_ he fucked up so badly in a past life that he actually deserves this hellish double whammy of being sexually frustrated at the same time that he’s walking around deformed by a gruesome rash. There’s just. no. way.

(And might he be forgiven for being a tad melodramatic at the moment? Yes, yes he might.)

Always a fast learner, Armie keeps his head tipped down and his hands on Timmy’s shoulders, which has the added benefit of shielding Timmy slightly from the onslaught pounding down on Armie’s back. Which is a relief to Timmy, because even though Armie’s sheltering position is helping, he’s struggling not to aspirate too much water as it rolls down Armie’s cock and directly into his throat. He redoubles his efforts when he beginnings to question how much longer he can actually go before he’s really struggling to breathe, sucking Armie like a vacuum, massaging his cock with his tongue and using the hand not gripping Armie’s thigh to cup and lightly scratch his balls in just the way he likes.

When he feels Armie’s balls draw up and hears him suck in a breath, Timmy reaches back and presses a knuckle up hard into Armie’s perineum, wrenching a gasping cry out of him as he comes down Timmy’s throat, his hot, thick come joining the water still coursing down. Timmy sucks hard until Armie runs dry, and then he quickly pulls off and stands up, grabbing Armie under his armpits and easing him back against the wall before his shaking legs go out from under him and he slides to the shower floor, Timmy’s grip ensuring a soft landing.

Timmy crouches in front of Armie, unable to keep the extremely self-satisfied grin off his face even as he works to catch his breath, and he gently brushes Armie’s hair back while he waits for him to open his eyes. When he finally does, he laughs breathlessly at the excited grin on Timmy’s face, loving how happy it’s made Timmy to _finally_ get him off.

“Fuck, Sweet Tea. I think you sucked all the strength out of me.”

Timmy keeps grinning like a fool. “You feel good?”

Armie laughs. “I feel like I’m floating.”

Timmy helps him onto the shower bench (where he belatedly realizes he should have directed Armie in the first place. Live and learn) before he turns to wash the mess off his face. Armie’s a little wobbly when Timmy wraps him in a towel and pulls him to his feet, so he helps him out to the bedroom and settles him on the bed before grabbing the (accursed) calamine lotion and a glass of water for Armie to rehydrate. While Armie gulps the water down, Timmy smooths the lotion over the angry red rash, over the sea of tiny pustules, and he’s surprised by the rush of emotion that hits him as he works over the marred skin.

He looks up and meets Armie’s eyes, which are watching him with mild amusement, as if he knows what Timmy is feeling, and he wonders briefly what his annoyingly expressive face is doing. But then Armie’s stomach lets out a loud growl, and he laughs and slaps Armie lightly on the cheek.

“Let’s go feed the beast, big guy.”

Still naked, Timmy saunters out to the kitchen to make lunch, wiggling his ass tauntingly while Armie sits glued to the bed staring after him, his eyes glazing over.

**Author's Note:**

> “mon trésor” – “my treasure”  
> “De rien, mon trésor. Je t'aime” – “You’re welcome, my treasure. I love you.”  
> Comments and kudos are always appreciated!


End file.
